


Isolated (but not alone)

by aishahiwatari



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arguing, Cop!Butcher, Dungeons & Dragons References, Fade to Black, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Making Out, Making Up, Mentions Of Infidelity, Power Imbalance, Quarantine, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Swearing, The Great British Bake Off References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Butcher’s internet girlfriend Becca has always said she’d love for him to come visit her in New York.Turns out, her husband’s not so keen on the idea.But Hughie offers Butcher a place to stay. Just while this whole global pandemic thing blows over.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 18
Kudos: 356





	Isolated (but not alone)

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration with the wonderful [Trick](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/), who draws fantastic art for these two and is just an all-round amazing person.

Okay, well. It could be worse. Butcher hates surprises and should have known better than to fucking attempt one just because he wanted to make his long-distance girlfriend smile with his impromptu visit.

What actually happened was that her husband immediately kicked him out.

He also thinks he saw school textbooks on the kitchen table before he left, and doesn’t he just have a few questions about that.

Not that he’s ever going to speak to Becca again. At least his flight into New York was cheap, although the descent of a global pandemic might have something to do with that. His return flight isn’t for months, and they’ve already cancelled two of the ones he was trying to change it to.

A couple of notably deserted hotels have turned him away, saying they have no vacancies, and he’s not been in the mood to argue but he might have to start. Sleeping on the streets gets old fast, and he’s got a full suitcase, not to mention his personal baggage now his only borderline successful relationship has turned out to be an utter fucking lie.

This is shit. He walks aimlessly, too much frustrated energy to consider keeping still, on his phone and receiving glares from the surprisingly few members of the public still out on the streets. He had always heard New York was busy.

In the back of his mind, he knows it’s a bad sign.

He knows it in the front of his mind, too, actually, when he skims the news bulletins and sees the announcement that the whole city’s going to be in quarantine. Nobody will be allowed on the streets except for necessary supplies and medical needs. All the hotels and restaurants will be shut. The supermarkets are already fucking ravaged by hoarders and people who know they won’t be able to leave the house for two weeks if they start to cough.

“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself. Should have stayed at home. At least there he wasn’t going to have to sell his body for loo roll.

Vaguely, he browses the internet, seeking somewhere he might be able to sleep before he resorts to trying the Embassy.

And he doesn’t believe in fate, but he finds somewhere.

Not on the internet, no; that’s singularly unhelpful and nobody back in the UK really uses Craigslist but he knows enough not to pursue any of those offers. He nearly walks into two guys having an argument on the street, one of whom appears to have made a commitment to renting a room from the other but is reneging on that deal.

“Look. Hugh. I need that deposit back.”

“It’s Hughie. And I can’t do it, because it’s in a secure account that only the landlord can access. As we agreed. So you’re gonna have to go, and take it up with him later.”

“Well, give it to me in cash and then take it out for yourself later.”

“Cash? This isn’t nineteen ninety-nine. I’ve got about a buck thirty plus my student debt, you’re welcome to that.”

“You getting funny with me, kid?”

Yeah, Butcher’s heard enough. “This guy bothering you, Hughie?”

He sees the other guy consider arguing with him, responds by standing up tall and squaring his shoulders, nearly has him convinced. He’s used to shit like this; being a cop in London for seven years has greatly enhanced his ability to stand there with his arms folded. “Sounds to me like you need to contact the landlord, mate.”

And Butcher hasn’t been in the States long, but he’s found that making suggestions in a British accent tends to get things done. Or maybe it’s just his natural authority. Too late, he remembers these people may habitually carry guns, and even Hughie is eyeing him suspiciously. Whoops.

It works, though. After a couple more moments of intense eye contact and thankfully no production of any firearms, there are some grumbled excuses and the man stalks off. Sans deposit.

“What a cunt.”

“Can- I help you? I don’t think we’ve met.”

Oh right, yeah, the natural suspicion of a city dweller chatting to an immigrant. Butcher tries for his best charming smile. “You just looked like you needed some help. Couldn’t help overhearing, and I think we can do each other a little favour here.”

“I, uhh, can’t really afford- that.”

“Not sexual favours. My fault, common misconception, should have opened with that. You’re letting a room. I’m homeless and in possession of a PayPal account, and all the necessary paperwork for a three-month tourist visa including my confirmation of my lacking a criminal record. Since I was eighteen. Full disclosure, couple of small TDAs before that. You know. Joyriding.”

“I don’t have a car.” Hughie says, but at least he’s reading the identity documents Butcher hands over.

“Would you like one? Joke.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“You didn’t know that last cunt either and look how that turned out. Look. I sound rough. Fucking Jason Statham ruining it for the rest of us-“

“I’m an Idris Elba fan, myself, but go on.“

“Oh yeah. Man’s a legend. Point is, I’m here legally and I can pay you, which is all you’d ever know about anyone you met on the internet anyway. How much is a month’s rent here anyway?”

“Eight thousand dollars.”

“See, I suspect you’re joking. But also you’ve got me over a barrel here, Hughie. It’s a fucking lockdown and I need somewhere to live. If you want me to pay you eight thousand dollars, then I will.”

Hughie appears to consider it, but Butcher knows how to read a person and he’s talking to a kind one with a gentle heart who will probably not completely fleece him.

“It’s forty-five hundred up-front. That’s a month’s rent at fifteen hundred plus your security deposit. You’ll pay your share of the utilities, too.”

Jesus fucking Christ, New York is savage. Butcher doesn’t even want to think about how the exchange rate is going to hit him on that. “You got it. PayPal alright?”

“Well, I don’t take payment in stolen cars.”

“Why would you? I mean, where would you park them?”

Hughie gives him an unwilling but genuine smile and nod, eyes Butcher’s suitcase, jerks his head to invite him into the building. “Come on. I’ll make coffee.”

Butcher feels a sense of relief he hadn’t even realised was escaping him until that moment, and follows him up the stairs.

-

Butcher’s room is small, but it’s clean. And the apartment is nice. Chintzy as fuck. Like, full of the kind of shit Butcher’s mother would buy. But yeah, nice. A little untidy, but not dirty. Not crawling with cockroaches or anything.

Thinking about it, that’s probably something he should have checked. He doesn’t even know Hughie’s last name, has no idea if he’ll be a complete nightmare to live with. He doesn’t even know- “Have we got- you know, food?” he asks as he returns to the living room, leaning against the wall.

“Oh yeah, plenty. My dad’s kind of into couponing so we could make it through two or three apocalypses -apocalypsi?- as long as you don’t mind cup noodles and store-brand toilet paper.”

“I’m happy with anything. Thanks. For- letting me stay.”

“Well, you’re helping me out too. I run tech support so business is going to be a little slow the next couple of weeks without being able to do home visits. People don’t generally want my help if their internet is still working.” Hughie’s in the kitchen, idly tidying, but he looks up then. “Do you- work? Over here?”

“Just back home. I’m on unpaid leave but I’ve got savings. I- planned to be here for a while.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it and Hughie doesn’t ask, although he looks as though he might later. “You want something to eat?”

“I’m- good, thanks. Just gunna catch up on the news. If that’s alright.”

“Sure.” Hughie shrugs, and then with what appears to be great effort and deep unfamiliarity adds, “It’s your house.”

Butcher’s smile probably resembles a grimace, and then he turns and shuts himself in his room.

He’s hungry, but he’s also jet-lagged and reeling from the shattering of his foundations, in amidst a planetary pandemic.

He needs some rest.

-

Hughie doesn’t bother him. In return, Butcher doesn’t either. Mostly he stays in his room, comes out to eat and make civilised conversation in passing but his world is growing smaller by the day. All the flights are cancelled. He’s technically allowed to leave the flat for exercise but has no idea where he’d go and doesn’t want to accidentally bring the virus into Hughie’s home.

Their home.

Still doesn’t quite fit, in his mind, that phrase.

Hughie is implausibly sweet for a guy from New York. He’s always polite and civil, verging on friendly, and he works in his own room in the evening even though it has to be uncomfortable for him and there’s plenty of seats at the kitchen table. Like he’s giving Butcher the space.

“You don’t have to go,” Butcher says, one night, before he’s even realised he’s going to, when Hughie’s packing up his stuff to retreat and Butcher’s barely even walked into the room. “I-“ fuck, he’s going to have to talk about his feelings. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in three days. If you want to stay- I would like that.”

“You sure? I know it sucks having your landlord around.”

“Just- don’t have a go at me for putting things in the wrong bins and using all the hot water.”

“Oh, it’s you who’s doing that,” Hughie says, but he’s smiling, and he settles back down, not quite getting back to his work. “Are you doing okay? I know it sucks not knowing anybody.”

“I’m- adjusting.” Going through the cupboards still isn’t quite coming naturally; Hughie told him to help himself so at that moment, in front of him, it’s worse not to do it. Depleting their admittedly impressive stockpile is anxiety-inducing but no sense starving to death on a mountain of food, right? He’s not got enough confidence to cook, just yet, but he can microwave whatever the fuck a hot pocket is and eat it almost without dripping cheese sauce everywhere.

“Embracing the local culture?” Hughie teases.

Butcher takes a big bite in answer and nearly dies because the shit they fill these things with is hotter than the sun.

“They get hot in the middle,” Hughie tells him, one hurriedly-filled glass of water later.

“Fuck you.”

And Butcher doesn’t even feel bad about being rude. Progress.

-

“Do you want me to- do something?” he asks a few days later, when he and Hughie have progressed to both sitting at the table, and Butcher has managed to not only grill chicken but steam some actual vegetables to go with them.

Too late, he realises it sounds like the set up to a porn movie, and not even a good one. “I want to pull my weight. Around the place.”

“You’re paying rent. The chores are my job.”

“Well, come on, give me something. You need a hand with any of the neighbours?”

It’s -mostly- a joke, and thankfully, Hughie takes it that way. It’s so easy, with him. Like they’re on the same wavelength, never struggling to understand one another. "If you can make Mrs. Leary's Chihuahua ‘go missing’, I promise I won't say a thing."

“Well, we’ve got to eat something.”

“Oh, God.” Hughie grimaces, but he’s laughing.

Butcher pushes a little more. He’s not used to feeling beholden to anyone, and he doesn’t intend to start now. “I want to help. Let me help. Do the hoovering or something.”

For a moment, it’s almost like Hughie is checking him out, his eyes still bright with humour. Then he nods towards the kitchen, where hanging up is the most ridiculous frilly white pinny Butcher has ever seen. “Only if you wear the apron.”

“I’ll wear the apron. And I’ll look fucking good doing it.”

It takes a few moments to get a response regarding that particular offer, and Butcher wonders if he’s crossed some kind of unspoken line until Hughie blinks himself free of his stupor and shrugs, with a few taps on his phone. “You don’t need to vacuum. I can do it from here.”

Butcher nearly leaps out of his skin when one of those bastard robot hoover Roomba things starts up across the room. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And you don’t need to dust,” Hughie says too, not quite casually, but Butcher is respecting his space and his privacy and doesn’t ask. “Just leave it, I’ll do it. You can do your own laundry? There’s a room in the basement with all the machines. Maybe clean the bathroom. I don’t fucking know. I think we had a maid, before.”

He doesn’t seem sure.

Sometimes he comes across as really intelligent and other times Butcher wonders whether he’s living in this world at all.

He’s definitely breaking out the apron next time he wants to get a reaction out of him, though.

-

They settle into a routine. Hughie wakes up first and when he fills the coffee pot, he also puts the kettle on for Butcher’s tea. It’s- comfortably domestic, without being overwhelming. Butcher feels a little warmer every time it happens, not used to living with anyone who cares for him.

Except one morning he’s the one who has to put the kettle on. After figuring out the coffee pot -what the fuck is wrong with a cafetière anyway, Butcher wants to know- there’s still no sign of Hughie, although Butcher can hear noises from his room. He pours a mug of coffee, wonders briefly at the fact he knows how much cream and sugar to add, and then approaches Hughie’s room.

He hesitates before knocking, crossing a new boundary between them when they haven’t known each other very long at all, despite sharing the same space constantly for a couple of weeks or so. And in that moment of hesitation, he hears Hughie’s voice.

And yet, not Hughie’s voice.

“You stand before a cave, with smoke billowing from the entrance, the scent of brimstone strong in the air. You recall the words of the gold dragon: that this one will be stronger, greedier than any you have ever faced.”

Butcher has a sneaking suspicion he knows what this means, and that he should probably not be listening in, but he does anyway, because hearing Hughie sound so strong and so confident is alien and unfamiliar and- he likes it.

Hughie’s clearly running the show, presumably for people on the other end of an internet connection and a set of headphones, has a skill for changing his voice depending on the character he’s playing. He makes the whole dungeons and dragons thing seem fun and engaging, rather than the kind of ridiculous enterprise conducted by super-nerds in basements.

Butcher retreats, that first time. Shouts to Hughie that he’s made coffee from the kitchen, sees him appear with flushed cheeks and a kind of awkward secondary embarrassment he pretends not to notice.

It’s the following week that he gets caught, doesn’t have a chance to move in between Hughie saying he’s just going to get coffee and his opening the door to find Butcher there with a mug in each hand, offering him one after a moment’s delay.

Also, he’s a complete arsehole, so he says, in lieu of having anything resembling a feeling or making any kind of apology for eavesdropping, “Not sure if wizards drink coffee, but we’re all out of pumpkin juice.”

Hughie takes it with a muttered thanks, scarlet cheeks and downcast eyes, and then slams the door in his face.

Butcher doesn’t overhear anything after that, except the vague impression of hushed whispers.

Fuck. He really had meant it as light-hearted teasing, the kind to which the appropriate response, back home anyway, would be to tell him to fuck off. It was supposed to lighten the mood. It’s not like he doesn’t know Hughie’s a huge nerd. There are what Butcher would probably tactlessly describe as toys scattered around the flat. Superhero type figures, fake weapons and movie novelisations, books about dungeons and dragons and space. The cardboard cut-out in the hallway scared the shit out of him the first time he caught sight of it in the half darkness.

He thinks it’s endearing. To see someone so passionate about something, so unapologetically, especially in their weird, currently enclosed environment. It’s inspiring.

But it’s not worth having Hughie refuse to speak to him for three fucking days. He hides in his room, has to hardly be eating because Butcher sleeps lightly and doesn’t even hear him moving around.

There’s still hot water for his tea every morning, though.

Goddamnit. Butcher misses him. He knocks on Hughie’s door a couple of times, but gets no response and he’s not going to just barge in.

He needs to think long-term.

They still hardly know each other, and he doesn’t want to push it, to upset Hughie even more or get himself kicked out. Hughie’s obviously had negative reactions to his interests in the past, and Butcher isn’t going to do that to him, but he has no way of knowing that just yet. It’s going to take time.

-

They start to bridge the gap when Butcher’s not even trying.

He’s just on the couch, watching TV, maybe making a few small suggestions about the behaviour of the contestants on the show, and Hughie slumps into the seat next to him.

“What are we watching?” he asks, getting comfortable.

“Bake Off. I can change it if you like.”

“No, it’s okay. They just make cakes?”

“For a baking legend and a complete cunt, yeah- fucks sake, mate, your caramel’s clearly overdone.”

“You bake?”

“Fuck no.”

Hughie smiles and settles a little more deeply into his seat.

By the beginning of the second episode he’s grabbed a blanket, microwaved some popcorn and offered to share.

“You cunt, you don’t grease your ramekin of course it’s gonna fucking stick.” Butcher is unable or at least unwilling to hold back his comments, and they’re making Hughie smile, so he sees no reason to stop.

And by episode three Hughie’s doing it right along with him, if slightly less aggressively. “There’s no way those egg whites are whipped enough.”

“It’s like he’s never made a meringue before.”

“I’ve never made a meringue before.”

“And you’ve got the common decency not to apply for a fucking baking show. Non-edible flowers, Mary’s gonna kick off about that.”

“How much of this show have you watched?”

Butcher grimaces. He maybe started watching it with Becca, so they could both comment on it from different sides of the pond, but- “Think the last one they did was series ten.”

There’s no reply, but Hughie smiles, and soon he’s cursing at the poor contestants as much as Butcher.

Butcher is not a baker -not a candlestick maker either, as he has heard too many fucking times- but in amongst Hughie’s apocalypse stockpile are packet brownies, and those he manages well enough.

Hughie’s still a little reserved, although he’s getting better, not quite as reclusive. Butcher’s trying to be sensitive about his issues but frankly he’s just not very fucking good at it.

“Made you these. They’re shaped like spellbooks,” he says, when he presents the plate to Hughie.

“They’re just regular brownies.”

“Well, yeah, with that attitude.”

Hughie takes one brownie off the pile, deposits it on the kitchen table, then takes the plate and its remaining contents into his room.

He does, however, leave his room to binge watch with Butcher in the evenings, and even if they exchange little more than commentary, it’s still human interaction, something Butcher is beginning to realise he craves despite his best efforts to deny it.

And it’s with Hughie, who-

“Fucks sake, Paul,” Butcher says to the TV, before he can finish that thought.

Hughie hums his agreement, looks over, and offers Butcher the edge of his blanket.

Butcher slides his legs beneath it without thinking, nudges Hughie’s calf with his toes, socks and jeans between them but the warmth pervading all the same. 

Well, this was a terrible idea, he thinks.

He doesn’t move. He’s comfortable.

-

He's never heard Hughie talk of a partner. Or anything like that. He doesn’t really seem to engage with anyone except the clients he talks to on the phone and the groups he role-plays with online. And- alright, Butcher’s curious. It will help him get over this ridiculous burgeoning crush, he tells himself, if it turns out Hughie is exclusively heterosexual and/or genuinely not interested in him. He can just leave it the fuck alone.

It turns out to be very difficult to bring up when all they talk about is fucking Bake Off.

He makes an effort, he really does, to try and broaden their conversational horizons. To improve his chances of happening upon an opportunity to bring up the topic, and just to get to know this interesting, intelligent young man.

“How was your session?” he asks, during one of the bits where the presenters talk about making biscuits in the olden days, having been attempting to build up his confidence to ask during the previous three episodes.

“What?” Hughie looks at him, then blinks. “Oh. D and D?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I’m curious. Indulge me.”

There are a few more moments of doubt, Hughie conflicted. Butcher wonders just how many negative reactions he’s had in the past, to be so unwilling to speak about it, whether it was something that shaped him, that rejection.

Eventually, Hughie tells him what he and his raiding party got up to. He starts off hesitant, gradually moves to reserved and detached, but after a while lapses into what Butcher has, thanks to a bit more spying than he has ever let on, come to recognise as his Dungeon Master voice. Even though apparently in this short campaign he was one of the players instead. He finds more confidence that way to say, “And then my girlfriend was horribly murdered in front of me. By an orc.”

"Did it-” Butcher pauses, mostly sure he’s got this right- “roll a nat 20 and get a critical hit?"

"That- actually made sense, have you been using YouTube?"

Butcher waves a hand in the direction of the Dungeons and Dragons Players’ Guide on the coffee table and confesses, “I've had time for some reading.”

It makes Hughie falter. His voice goes soft and confused. "You could have looked at anything. You could have watched Russian dashcam footage or learned a language or caught up on CSI. And you chose that?"

"It- oh, fuck me. It's interesting. And there’s never been a better time to escape the- material plane? I mean not that I'm not alright being here with you, but- it's all fucked, isn’t it? Who doesn’t want to cast some spells and stab people for a few hours."

Hughie is quietly, subtly thrilled. “I need to make you a character.”

“No, you don’t,” Butcher tells him, gently enough that he earns a curious look rather than an offended one before he can add, “I already made my own.”

"I have never been more attracted to you."

Butcher smiles, ducks his head, clears his throat, glad they’re good enough friends to joke about that now, or, judging by Hughie’s immediate visible panic that he’s said too much, maybe not just friends. Maybe-

Butcher turns back to the TV, thinking.

Maybe.

-

“Do you- exclusively own Hawaiian shirts?” Hughie calls, from Butcher’s room, when he hears him coming.

Now, Butcher’s not particularly thinking about what he’s doing, only that this is his space, and he’s comfortable enough for Hughie to be in it. Hughie’s going through his things, commenting on his fashion sense, seeking to dress him even though as far as Butcher can tell, he’s just as bad and it’s not like he’s actually going to own anything that will transform him into a convincing Lycanthropic Blood Hunter.

So he’s only wearing tight black boxer briefs and he’s still a little damp from his shower, his hair a mess and his beard not quite tamed, his towel in hand when he leans in the doorway.

And Hughie’s turning to face him, halfway through another light-hearted mockery, but he stops. And stares.

Now, Butcher theoretically knows what he looks like. He is not an unattractive man. But for a long time, the only attention he wanted was from Becca, and discovering none of that was real has shattered his confidence. He hadn’t dared to hope that Hughie -who is the best kind of fucking nerd, kind and sweet and at least twenty years younger than Butcher, and who can definitely do better- might look at him that way. Even trapped as they are, with no alternatives.

So he does his best to ignore it. Probably just an accidental slip anyway, he thinks, or social awkwardness, as he towels himself off, tries not to think about how he bends over when he picks his rumpled jeans off the floor.

“Tea?” Hughie asks him, shrilly, and is gone before he can turn around.

Butcher likes the Hawaiian shirts, anyway. He dresses mostly in black because colour coordination escapes him entirely, but it looks juvenile and overly dramatic to have a plain shirt too. Never mind that he brought them because they always delighted Becca when he would video call her in a new one.

They’re his. Not hers. He’s taking his life back from the relationship that fell apart, and he’s grateful that they’re not so tightly entwined he can’t escape her at all.

This place, and everything in it is new. Untampered with.

He vindictively pulls on the shirt she always said was her favourite, the one she always said she wanted to borrow when he came to visit her. And goes to role-play with Hughie.

-

The actual session is far more engaging than he had thought it would be; by the time they take a break, it’s been several hours and they’ve only made it through a handful of social exchanges and a couple of combat encounters. His character is- fucking complicated, and he’s skimming through reams of paper while the others excuse themselves to make food or use bathrooms.

“Are you having fun?” Hughie asks him, although he doesn’t seem too worried. Butcher had been getting the hang of it towards the end, and slipping into character more than he’d thought he would.

“Yeah. They’re nice. It’s more maths than I thought. More dice.”

“So many dice. You’re doing great. You picked a complicated class.”

“Thanks. My first time. I was nervous.”

Hughie rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He’s a little flushed, from trying to manage the session and also explain to Butcher what the fuck is going on and which dice he needs to roll for which things, and his hair’s a mess from where he runs his hands through it when he thinks. He looks good. Butcher’s glad he’s switched off his webcam for the moment.

“Thanks. For giving it a shot.”

“Well- like you said. Fuck all else to do.”

They’re definitely getting to know each other. Hughie smiles, asserts, “You’re having fun.”

-

Somehow, through some fucking miraculous miracle, they survive the tasks Hughie set them. He did not go easy on the difficulty, although he did allow everyone to chip in and let Butcher know what the fuck he could be doing on each of his turns. It’s strangely intense, and Butcher feels drained both from the stress of combat -even though all he has to lose in reality is some numbers on a sheet of paper- and spending time with new people, nice though they seem.

_“So you’re British, huh? What brings you over here?”_ Annie, who’s been defending him with her light magic for the previous few hours, asks, apparently innocently.

Butcher doesn’t know how much Hughie’s told her, but he isn’t sure how much he’s ready to share, either. “I, uhh-“

“You don’t have to answer.”

It’s Hughie’s offer -young people these days are so much more aware of other people’s feelings than anyone else Butcher knows- that allows him to speak, with a quick glance at the other carefully curious faces on his laptop screen.

“I know,” he says to Hughie first, who almost-smiles at him, just a quirk of lips. “I, uhh- came to meet my internet girlfriend. Becca. I was- gonna surprise her. She was fucking surprised alright, and so was her husband.”

Various noises of pain and sympathy ensue.

“Did you know?” Hughie asks, though, and Butcher might have been expecting that question, but- not from him. He had thought Hughie had more faith in him than that, and defensiveness makes him snap.

“Fuck off, Hughie, no I didn’t know.”

“Sorry. Just checking.”

“Well, no. I didn’t fucking know, and I’ve taken six months off work, unpaid, because I thought we’d make a go of it, you know? Start a life together. Like she said she wanted for over a fucking year.”

_“She sounds like a bitch.”_

“Thanks, Maeve.” Hughie glances at her, their nigh-impenetrable Barbarian who winks at the camera and raises her whiskey glass in a toast. Then he turns to Butcher, so genuinely concerned it’s difficult to stand it. “You okay?”

Back home, people just ignore emotion until it goes away. Butcher’s not good at talking about it. It threatens to overwhelm him. “Yeah, I’m gunna. Go to bed. Thanks for- I had a good time. Really.”

He closes the lid to his laptop, goes to leave, catches sight of Hughie’s aborted attempt to reach out for him but doesn’t stop.

“I’ll- fuck, I’ll call you guys back. Butcher.”

Okay. Then, he stops, out in the hallway, away from the eyes and ears of strangers. “Hughie. I’m tired-“

“Just one thing, I swear.” Hughie reaches out for him, waits for a begrudging nod before setting a hand on Butcher’s folded arms. He’s warm. “I’m- sorry it happened the way it did. It must have hurt. And you don’t deserve that. But I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s a long few moments before Butcher can find his voice to say, “Me too.”

-

“I don’t think we should be up here.”

“It’s fine. Door was unlocked.”

“It’s a fire escape, it has to be unlocked.”

“Hughie. You haven’t left the flat in three weeks. You need some fresh air. Right now, this is safer than being on the street. Extenuating circumstances. Anyway- nobody’s going to be allowed to come out and tell us off even if it does get reported.”

Hughie doubtfully allows that to move him, follows Butcher up the stairs. He has to pause to take a deep breath before he steps out through the door, one of the reasons why Butcher’s doing this in the first place. He’s not one for anxiety himself but the restrictions could easily send him spiralling, and Hughie was halfway there to begin with. He needs some fresh air without the fear, which is why Butcher checked the route up to the roof. He’s pretty sure it’s not alarmed.

And maybe he removed the sign that read, _‘Access only in Emergency’._ What Hughie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

It’s worth every risk to see him venture out, breathe deep, lose some of the tension he’s always carrying, these days. They try not to watch the news, except for a glance at the headlines to make sure the world isn’t ending even faster than usual, but anxiety thrums constantly through Hughie’s veins even with what little they absorb. They’re allowed out, for exercise, and to buy food. Hughie doesn’t go.

They can’t see a lot from the roof, with too many tall buildings close by, but it’s enough to at least expand their perspective, to remind them that there is still a world outside the four walls of Hughie’s -their- flat.

Hughie walks to the edge and looks down, leaning over the wall, peering at the few passers-by. It’s the closest he’s come to contact with another human who isn’t on his computer screen in weeks.

They’ve seen crowded hospitals, deserted parks, mass graves on the news. But in this moment, things could almost be normal.

There have been moments when they’ve- touched. They get closer to each other every day, even with all that’s at stake. And Butcher’s mind clutches at possibilities, but the only one he will entertain is stepping up behind Hughie and setting his hands on the waist-high wall either side of him to cage him in.

Hughie huffs, amused maybe, shifts only enough to let Butcher see over his shoulder, and lean into every point of contact between them. He has to hear Butcher’s breath catch, but he says nothing, just covers one of Butcher’s hands with his own.

“Thank you,” he says, too, so low Butcher wouldn’t even have heard him if he’d been anywhere else. “I needed this.”

“Should listen to me more often.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

He’s even beginning to sound like Butcher. They’re both influenced by such close proximity; Butcher nearly called it an apartment the other day. It doesn’t chafe as much as he’d thought. It’s probably doing him some favours.

“How long do you think?” Hughie muses too, settling back, looking up and out at the darkening sky, his head tipped back practically onto Butcher’s shoulder. “’Til things are back to normal?”

“Few months. Get worse before it gets better though.”

“Worse than this?”

“People get bored of being told what to do. Maybe some looting. Martial Law. Good excuse for the government to bring in some new measures that erode what few civil liberties you still have.”

“Just me?”

“I’m an immigrant, Hughie. Your president’s not exactly a big fan of those.”

“My mom was British. Glasgow.”

“I didn’t know that,” and Butcher’s aware of all that’s implied by the use of the past tense.

“She wanted me to grow up there, but- she died. And there was nothing there for my dad anymore. He already had this place. Do you think we would have met? If- we’d moved?”

The instinctive answer, ‘The UK’s not that small’ is on the tip of Butcher’s tongue, but he bites it back, thinks first, then speaks. “We met here. Against astronomical odds. It’s not impossible.”

It sounds too romantic, once it’s out, given tone and warmth, but Hughie hums and settles further into his arms, so- who gives a fuck.

“I’m so glad my dad’s not here.”

“In the city?”

“He’s on some- retreat, he said. I think he met someone online. Upstate maybe. He’s always- really careful when he video calls. Like I’m still a kid who thinks a partner’s gonna steal my dad away from me.” Hughie huffs again, in wry amusement. “He’s never forgiven me for the time I went through some poor woman’s handbag and made pretend mice out of her tampons.”

Butcher muffles his laughter in Hughie’s shoulder, feels the cautious brush of fingers through his hair that sends a pleasurable trickle of sensation down his spine. It’s the first time they’ve talked about any of this. Usually they just pretend it isn’t happening, that maybe they’re just reclusive and shallow by nature, living their everyday lives.

It’s not as objectionable as Butcher had thought. He’s beginning to realise just what was driving all the anxiety beneath Hughie’s composed surface. He keeps his forehead pressed to Hughie’s shoulder as he confesses, “My flat’s in London. Fucking glad I’m not there right now. Housemate’s probably happy, too.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Hughie says, and it wasn’t what Butcher meant, but he doesn’t correct him. At some point, his arm’s curled around Hughie’s waist, and he just squeezes him tighter.

They stand there for long minutes, just breathing, fresh air and each other.

“Least I’m not still playing Pokémon Go,” Hughie says before the tension can start to build, and Butcher’s so used to being the one to deflect, to bring the conversation back around to something safe that he starts, and then he laughs.

“Just had Tamagotchis in my day.”

“I think I still have one of those.”

“Wanna throw it off the roof?”

Hughie leans over, peers down as though considering it, and Butcher laments the loss of his warmth but then he’s back, settling right in. “Probably not responsible recycling.”

“You’re right. We’ll find a volcano to chuck it in.”

“Hawaii?”

“Perfect.”

That word hangs between them for the hour or so they manage to remain up there before Hughie’s anxiety over getting caught overrides the relaxing effect. They bump shoulders in the hall, curl up on the couch beneath a blanket and watch something Butcher hardly sees, too caught up in the unexpected intimacy of it all, and his own lack of objection.

He’s running out of reasons not to do this, and he can’t bring himself to care.

-

“I couldn’t find the Tamagotchi,” Hughie says, the next day. He’s been rummaging through old boxes, only emerged when he heard the coffee machine bing. “But I did find- this.”

The context isn’t immediately clear.

Then a soft- something hits him in the back. It’s a nerf dart. And Hughie is holding the gun in one hand, another on the kitchen table between them.

And he hollers, “I did not think this through!” when Butcher snatches it up and hits him in the back of the head with his first three shots. “Why did I think it would be a good idea to get in a shoot-out with a cop?” he adds, as he vaults over the sofa, and Butcher dives across the kitchen for his spent darts.

“Let’s not make this political, Hughie,” he says as he reloads, because yes, he is a cop, and he’s had many weeks of specialised firearms training, but Hughie doesn’t need to know that. “This is about skill-“ he fires a warning shot over Hughie’s cover, then hits him with another two when he emerges to the left, firing his own darts wide. “Nothing more.”

“I’m just warming up. Luring you into a false sense of security.”

He’s not, although he does get a little better. Butcher gently upends the kitchen table to provide more cover, and at some point one of them hits a glass left out that tips juice everywhere. They manage a truce for long enough to clean up the mess, but by that point Butcher’s stolen some of Hughie’s darts and knows he’s procuring more from somewhere, the cheating shit, so he shoves him -gently, he’s not a savage- into the wet patch and bolts when they’re mostly finished.

“Fuck you!” Hughie shouts, but he’s laughing, and Butcher pities their downstairs neighbour but it’s the most animated Hughie’s been since he’s known him, so he’ll deal with any fallout. He hasn’t had a chance to exercise properly for a long time, hasn’t had fun and laughed in even longer. It feels good to let off some steam.

Hughie inches closer, and it’s not until it’s too late that Butcher manages to get off a few shots because Hughie’s thrown the wet cloth at him so it smacks against his neck, cold and wet and sticky, and then tumbles away, diving over furniture in his retreat.

“Cunt!” Butcher generally tries not to say to Hughie, despite his habit, although judging by the cackling sound it earns him, he hasn’t offended. Ugh. It’s horrible, and his shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin.

That’s alright. He just takes it off. It’s warm in there anyway, and Hughie’s groan of not-quite-frustration when he sees heats him further still. This is probably a bad idea.

For all his terrible plans, though, Hughie’s are worse. Eventually even his improbable stash of ammo runs out, unaided by Butcher snatching up every stray projectile he can, his pockets bulging, and Hughie launches a full-frontal assault.

Butcher imagines he’s used to being the bigger one in any casual fight and he expects his momentum and the element of surprise to be enough. That’s certainly the impression he gets when he absorbs the assault, instinctively moving with it, the biggest shock the electric sparks that shoot through him when Hughie’s arms, bared by his T-shirt, wrap around his waist. Hughie’s shoulder collides with his middle, too, and it drives both of them to the ground but Butcher isn’t unused to this kind of attention. He’s done his share of friendly -and not- wresting, and he knows how best to turn this to his advantage, grabs and twists and they’re both on the floor, as planned, but Hughie is beneath him.

And fuck, his ideas are the worst. Hughie is flushed, his skin a little damp with sweat, hair mussed, his expression one of confused outrage as he assesses his new situation with no attempt made to escape from it. “How did you do that?”

He’s gorgeous. Butcher hurriedly tries to get at least his knees beneath him, because his body and Hughie’s are pressed tightly together in one long line, Butcher’s distributed weight pinning him down.

Somewhere in the hurried untangling of their bodies, their eyes meet, and Butcher has never witnessed anyone’s pupils visibly dilate before but Hughie’s do, then. He seems to be having trouble catching his breath, and he’s not trying to get away. This is such a bad fucking idea; they don’t know each other nearly well enough and they’re stuck sharing the same space. So much could go wrong. Butcher proved that with his last catastrophic attempt at a romantic relationship.

Hughie feels so good against him, though, and it seems like every possible attempt to extricate himself will only bring them into close contact, however briefly. He doesn’t know if he can resist. “Sorry,” he says, because he finds himself frozen, intensely unwilling to move.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Butcher gets as far as forming the beginnings of the word, “Why?” before Hughie arches and kisses him, and his breath leaves him in a heartfelt groan. _Never apologise for kissing me,_ he wants to convey, but all he can do is respond gratefully, shift in every single one of those ways that brings them closer together, and drink him in.

Hughie’s strong and sure as he presses into the kiss -very much their kiss, now- without a single fragment of regard for all the reasons why this is another of their terrible shared ideas. He apologised, like he knows but feels the same as Butcher, like he’s unable to resist the pull and draw of their desire, caught up in the chemistry and intensity of their hastily-assembled relationship.

It would be so easy to believe it could be real. That they can have this, that something good can come out of this whole fucked-up situation, that Butcher can possibly be enough for someone like Hughie. Someone sincere, and intelligent, and beautiful-

Oh, that is not a word used to describe someone who is just a quick fuck, however he looks at it. However good it feels to slide a hand up beneath Hughie’s shirt, over the flat plane of his stomach, his skin smooth and warm and so soft he never wants to stop touching.

On the way back down, he curls his hand around the curve of Hughie’s hip, toys with the waistband of his jeans, momentarily struck by the promise of what lays beneath.

He breathes a curse into their kiss and Hughie, strong and sensitive and stubborn, responds with panted laughter and, “I mean, sure, if you want.”

They’re still tangled together. Hughie has never been submissive but he has no objection to being beneath him, has wrapped a hand around the back of Butcher’s neck and has the other splayed over the curve of his arse and is trying to haul him closer if anything. He’s breathing fast, and his skin is a little damp from this and all that came before it. He kisses with more hunger than finesse but Butcher can’t blame him, isn’t much better, has waited too long to get this close.

Hughie tastes like sugar and something vaguely based on fruit. American soda. Sweet, and impossible. He lifts his hips when Butcher delves into his mouth, arches and whines when Butcher bits his bottom lip, gently at first and then harder when Hughie claws enthusiastic scratches down his back.

“Fuck, why aren’t you naked?” Butcher’s voice comes out hoarse and demanding, but Hughie responds by squirming out of his T-shirt and laughing, like he might actually be happy about this.

“We can’t all stroll around looking like underwear models.”

“It’s your house, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

That- turns out to be the wrong thing to say. Hughie stops, and not in the sexy, savouring the moment way. In fact, his expression is one of dawning horror. “Oh, God. I’m practically your landlord. We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s so inappropriate.”

It must be hard work being such an unrelenting sweetheart. “You’re not exactly taking advantage here, Hughie. I want this. I’m-“ Butcher has to stop, roll his eyes at the fact he’s talking about his feelings. “I’m glad you took the leap.”

“You’re not obligated. I’d never- treat you any differently, or- kick you out. This is your home. Whether you want me, like this, or not.”

The word sends a shiver down Butcher’s spine. “I want you.”

“You swear?” Hughie’s so fragile, so vulnerable, but he’s protecting them both, with everything he has.

It’s a shame Butcher is physically incapable of getting through an entire serious discussion. Fortunately, “Fuck yes,” is enough for Hughie, who smiles at him like he understands.

Butcher has to initiate the kiss this time, too; Hughie won’t. But Butcher ducks his head, and he has a moment to drink in the anticipation, feel the electric charge between them build then spark to life at that cautious, gentle point of contact between them. With the sense of urgency abated, with Hughie shirtless, that glorious expanse of smooth skin pressed against his own, he feels Hughie shiver, so soft and delicate.

He eases up to take in lidded, darkened eyes, flushed cheeks, swollen lips. “Will you let me take you to bed, Hughie? You’re too good for the floor.”

“Charmer.” But Hughie accepts the hand Butcher offers to help him up. “My bed’s bigger than yours.”

There’s an involuntary, animal rush of blood to Butcher’s cock at the thought of being wrapped up in Hughie, in his space, surrounded by him. The shift in positions has curbed his impatience but not his desire, and he pulls Hughie in the direction of his bedroom. There’s no resistance at all.

He pushes Hughie down on the sheets, and finally gets to see every inch that’s been hidden from him for what feels like an age. He gets to hear the sweet, breathless noises Hughie makes and feel the swell of pride that fills his chest at being the one to have caused them.

They’re alone in their little bubble, far away from the rest of the world. And there’s nowhere either of them would rather be.

-

It’s been a really long fucking time since Butcher woke up in someone else’s bed. Longer still since he’s laid still, keeping his breathing even to just watch someone sleep, Hughie so lovely he just can’t help himself. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so far from his near-constant state of anxiety.

Butcher’s heart aches with the desire to touch him, to get close to him, to wake him with kisses and press him into the sheets and just-

Keep him.

But that is not his right. Hughie has his own responsibilities for their home but Butcher is older, and he’s seen more of the world. He needs to be the sensible one here. No matter how badly he wants to haul Hughie into his arms and never let go, this isn’t his world. He doesn’t know how long this current situation is going to last and at some point, he’s going to have to go back.

This is fun and good and feels like so much more than he deserves, and he’s going to make the most of every single second, but he has to accept that maybe it can’t go on. That maybe Hughie, and his time here, will become just a treasured memory to look back on, while he returns to his everyday life.

There’s nothing to drag them out of bed this morning, though, no work to do. So they can just stay as long as they want. Butcher can be selfish and nudge Hughie awake, watch his smile bloom, sleepy and sincere. He reaches for Butcher before he can push into his arms, and he practically purrs when Butcher lavishes attention on his throat, buries his face there and sucks marks into the soft skin until Hughie is squirming beneath him, pressing his fingers into Butcher’s arms so hard they might bruise.

They don’t need breakfast, just yet.

-

Hughie doesn’t work all day or have regular hours of any description, but when a call comes in, he has to devote his attention to it.

That’s all that dictates their isolated routine, really, Hughie groaning at the chiming sound and tearing himself away from whichever activity they’re engaged in, so he can find his headset and his laptop, sit at the kitchen table and talk to a client about their miscellaneous technology issues. He’s on call, so he apparently gets paid for doing no work at all, as long as he’s ready to answer at ridiculous hours of the night.

There’s- something about him, on those calls. Gone is the uncertain, cautious Hughie that Butcher knows, replaced by a confident, capable advisor who unironically says things like, “Sounds like an issue with your algorithmic efficiency,” and “I have some experience in distributed computing.”

He does put his head in his hands -carefully, so as not to bump the headset mic- whenever he tells someone to just try restarting their computer, though.

Butcher loves seeing him focused and intent, but what he loves more is seeing that concentration flicker and fade when he catches sight of Butcher, dusting something that doesn’t need to be dusted, wandering innocently into his view to reveal he’s wearing nothing but the white, frilled apron Hughie pointed out the day he arrived.

It actually makes Hughie trail off mid-sentence, forces him to make some kind of excuse about a bad line as he attempts to regain his composure and tear his eyes away. Which is very flattering. Probably helps that Butcher loves hearing him sound all cool and confident, and the pinny is having only the barest success in concealing the effect that’s having on him. He stretches, and shows off, and preens, and Hughie pretends to type with the beginnings of a flustered stammer.

“You should, uhh, definitely consider the- financial implications of a peer-to-peer network, yeah-“

If he’s still managing full sentences, Butcher isn’t doing this correctly. He reaches higher, ducks down low, hears Hughie attempt to continue his conversation and have to apologise once more for the quality of the line when his voice turns shrill.

It’s very, very cute.

And he stammers again, but he makes no move to actually object when Butcher strolls casually over, just flutters around the edge of Hughie’s laptop screen with his feather duster, makes sure he’s close enough to touch when he leans over the table. He’s having fun, and Hughie’s eyes are dark, his fingers moving deftly over the keyboard while his gaze remains stuck on the curve of Butcher’s rear, head tilted.

“Well, the capability for concurrency is definitely a priority, in this case.”

Sounding increasingly vague and dreamy, Hughie reaches out, maybe to run fingertips down Butcher’s side, only for him to move away at the last instant. Somehow he suppresses his sound of outrage, just glares at Butcher’s reflection in his computer screen as he circles behind him and eases his chair back from the table.

They don’t have a safe word, as such, but Hughie can mute his mic for long enough to tell him to stop, or just wave him away.

He doesn’t do either of those things.

Even when Butcher deposits himself in his lap.

Hughie’s found his resolve just leans back and admires the view, with a lazy smile on his face, fingers interlaced behind his head as he fucking lounges, as wilful and stubborn as he’s ever been. Like this is his natural place and the display is barely affecting him at all, like he doesn’t lick his lips, anticipatory, as Butcher begins to untie the ribbons that fasten the apron at his neck.

“Other brands of hardware are worth considering. I can send you an email, after this call, with some recommendations for your required functionality.”

Butcher shivers. It should be degrading, this, parading around for such little acknowledgment, but he’s hard beneath white fabric, and his nipples are peaked when he exposes them to both the air and Hughie’s hungry gaze. There are still ties at his waist, so the apron doesn’t fall off completely, just pools in his lap. When he twists to try and undo them, Hughie steadies him with two very distracting hands cupping the meat of his arse, squeezing and kneading.

He can’t make a sound. Their game aside, this is Hughie’s livelihood, and it takes a sudden and painful clenching of Butcher’s jaw to keep his voice at bay, just heavy breathing he turns his head to direct away from Hughie’s mic. Hughie’s thumbs caress his lower back, soothing, touch drifting ever so slowly to the ties of the apron while Butcher leans on the back of Hughie’s chair, rasps his stubbled jaw against the soft skin of Hughie’s throat, darts out his tongue to taste clean sweat, and scrapes his teeth just lightly, enjoys the tightening of Hughie’s grip.

“That’s absolutely fine, please take a moment to fill in a customer satisfaction survey and thank you for calling for support. My name is Hughie, if you need any further assistance please be sure to call back.”

Hughie rips off the headset, thumbs at the mute button and throws it across the room, hauls Butcher into a hard, dirty kiss that makes them both groan with satisfaction.

He’s so, so much fun. Butcher adores him.

-

So they’re kept busy. Or they keep each other busy. Butcher’s never been more grateful for the company of another human being in his life; after so long spent alone aside from the social interaction that occurred through work, his computer and shouting at his flatmate to stop being such a cunt, he had thought it would be a struggle. Maybe it took a while to adapt, but- this is good.

The first time Hughie accosts him while in costume, with a narrative and characters all planned out- Butcher’s a little wary, but he runs with it. It’s not really surprising that Hughie’s into roleplay, he thinks afterwards, with Hughie sated and sleeping beside him, Butcher tracing up and down the line of his spine with his fingers just to be touching him.

Butcher figures he shouldn’t be surprised, and what the fuck else are they going to do all day, except play these games with each other. It’s fun, and it’s uplifting, and it gives them a break from the relentlessly catastrophic news feeds, so he’s happy to indulge it.

It’s never been easy for him to talk about his feelings. And it’s been a long time since it’s been necessary for him to have any kind of discussion about sex. But Hughie’s always so soft and trusting when he feels like he’s being accepted, when his busy mind quiets and allows him to absorb all the affection he deserves, and Butcher is just honoured to have been invited along.

Sometimes they don’t bother with all the additional stuff. They’re in a new relationship, cooped up together 24 hours a day, with little else to build their routine around but Hughie’s infrequent tech support calls. They learn the shapes and sounds of each other with single-minded intent, and Butcher catches himself gazing lovingly across the room more than once, his irritation with himself outweighed only by the warm pride that glows within him when Hughie catches his eye and gives him a lop-sided smile right back.

Hughie is a revelation. With him, Butcher feels all the same things he thought he did with Becca, only he knows these are real. They’re staring him in the face, impossible to deny, and he’s so fortunate to be here, against the odds.

He just- fuck, he’d do anything for this ridiculous, gorgeous nerd.

So when Hughie hints that he might want to play at being a superhero, Butcher’s only question is asked as he presses Hughie up against the wall, feeling the solid lines of his body through the thin boundaries of their clothing. “Does that make me the villain, or the one waiting to be rescued?"

It’s supposed to be playful, but it makes Hughie’s expression crease with doubt, his confidence so precious and fragile. “I doubt you'd need me to rescue you.”

Yeah. Butcher gets that a lot; the assumption that he is big and burly, with facial hair, and so he must be an impenetrable fortress of a man, strong and capable. People think there’s no possible way he could be into anything bookish, when really he’s happy to do just about anything if it pleases his partner. He likes to have a good time, and if that involves a bit of research beforehand, taking up some of his readily available free time, he’s got no objections.

Hughie hasn’t quite figured that out yet, though, and he has crises of confidence on a regular basis. “This- you don’t have to do this. Play some silly game with me.”

“Hughie. We’re stuck in this flat for months. We’ve got nothing to do but play games. Now, tell me what you want.” Butcher steps in close, and he wraps a hand around Hughie’s throat and lifts, just a little, just enough to make his heart race in instinctive panic, pulse pounding against Butcher’s fingers. “Do you want me to fight you?”

He gentles his hold then, strokes his thumb along the line of Hughie’s jaw as he releases him, smooths the front of Hughie’s shirt down, gives him an impossibly demure look from beneath thick, dark lashes. “Or do you want me to thank you for saving me?”

That works. Hughie’s breathing faster, his lips twitching into a smile as his eyes darken and he drags Butcher in for a kiss. “How can I possibly refuse servicing such a handsome prince in need?”

-

It’s the stupidest shit that sets off their first fight, and the stupidest arsehole -Butcher- who doesn’t shut the fuck up when he needs to and makes the whole thing worse.

They aren’t even paying that much attention to the Harry Potter movie marathon while they cuddle on the couch, just on their phones, killing time while they wait for the world to make sense again. But when they go to bed, they’re building up to some kind of game. Hughie rolls him onto his back and seeks control and Butcher’s struck with the playful urge to respond, in his plummiest accent, “My father will hear about this.”

They’d been progressing into sweet, intimate touches, exploring each other, exchanging kisses. But at that point, Hughie starts laughing too much for them to carry on, his whole body quaking, eventually chokes out, “Just as long as you don’t tell mine when he gets back.”

Now this is the fucking stupid part. Butcher has been here for months and has not at any point realised that Hughie’s dad also lives in this apartment. It maybe makes him freeze up. "When he what?"

“If my room’s down here, whose room did you think was across from yours?”

Hughie sounds exasperated. Butcher feels like he’s lost more than the moment, here. He has no fucking idea what he thought, until this moment. “Fuck knows. Airing cupboard?”

Hughie’s disentangling himself from their very comfortable, intimate embrace, muttering something about his dad cockblocking him even when he’s not around and- fuck- Butcher needs to fix this. He wants that warmth back.

“Hughie. Don't- come on. This is weird for me. I'm closer to your dad's age than yours. What the fuck's he going to think?”

“You're freaking out about the age difference now?”

Oh, he’s not fixing this. He’s no fucking good at this. Fuck.

Hughie’s not even finished. He’s angrily pulling his shirt back on, and Butcher doesn’t dare reach for him in fear of being rejected, just sits, shirtless himself, on Hughie’s bed, while he goes on, heartbroken and heartbreaking. “My dad's not gonna say shit because he's been trying to set me up for years and if I have to hear one more time how Mrs. Fratelli's daughter is ‘such a nice girl for me’ I might actually go insane."

Who the fuck is Mrs Fratelli? Butcher hates her already, and her fucking daughter. Hughie is his, although at this moment he’s never felt further out of reach. He tries, once more, just about as hard as he can manage.

“That’s- I should have known, alright? I've seen the property prices around here. They're fucking ridiculous. I'm just- being a cunt. I'm sorry.”

Hughie sits heavily on the bed, refusing to look at him, tense and defensive, wallowing in the issues Butcher’s just brought to the forefront of both their minds. He flinches away from Butcher’s cautiously extended hand. It feels like a stab in the heart, and Butcher has no idea what he can do or say that isn’t going to make everything worse. So- he goes.

He can’t leave the flat, not really, without taking risks he’s not prepared to take with a fair section of the American population decidedly not on board with basic precautions, but he slopes off to his room.

It’s not ridiculous, he tries to tell himself, that he’s concerned about what people might think. Isolated as they are, they’re having fun, but there are going to be comments, sideways glances and snide remarks. Butcher’s not far off being twice Hughie’s age, and although they have more in common than anybody might think at first glance, it’s not going to be obvious why they’re together.

Well. Some people will have all sorts of ideas why, but those people will be wrong.

He just really doesn’t want Hughie’s dad -who lives here, fucking obviously lives here, when there’s not some global catastrophe going on- to be one of them.

Kind of moot, anyway, when Hughie’s not even speaking to him. Maybe he just needs some space, and time.

Butcher’s not really sure what else he can give him.

-

After two days of excruciating, torturous, deeply boring isolation, he’s willing to do just about everything.

He hadn’t realised just how much of his routine had come to depend on Hughie, how much his smile and voice and sense of humour had helped to keep him going. They spend almost all of their time together, in comfortable companionship if not direct interaction and maybe it’s rendered Butcher unhealthily co-dependent, but he can’t see any reason not to be. There is nobody else with whom he can share the intricacies of his day, or his deepest thoughts and fears.

He’s had curious messages from a couple of people back in London but most of them seem more interested in what they can use to fuel the rumour mill that’s running around his sudden disappearance, than in his welfare. Maybe he’s just cynical and suspicious, and this new environment has drawn attention to how his job has influenced his nature over the years, but-

Maybe there’s just nobody who really cares that much about him. Including Becca.

And if this had been any other time, in any other year, any other place, he could have moved on, or thrown himself into his work, or started building his life from the ground up all over again. In a way, he has been building, but Hughie is so inextricably cemented into his new foundations he doesn’t know if he can let him go.

What he does know, is that they can’t go on like this. He needs to know if he’s brought them both to the conclusion that this isn’t going to work, that they’re too different. And he needs to find the words to say- that he needs Hughie, that this isn’t just a place for him to live, anymore. Maybe it never was. From the first moment he saw this prematurely jaded, starkly intelligent young man give him a wry smile- he was lost.

He can’t hold back. He’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t do everything he can.

He just hopes it will be enough. If it’s not, well- he won’t blame Hughie, for realising what Becca already knew. That he’s not enough.

Butcher’s aware of his own faults. He’s aggressive and brash, and he’s tactless and occasionally cruel. But he’s loyal, and honest, and he’s done some shitty things in the name of an unseen greater good but he doesn’t believe he’s a bad person. He has no idea how to express himself, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel. And he loves to the point of obsession.

But that’s nobody’s fault but his. Least of all Hughie. 

-

Butcher eats dinner alone one more time, and then he breaks. He can’t stand the silence anymore, has no idea how Hughie is avoiding him so effectively, can only imagine when and what he’s been eating. So he knocks on Hughie’s door, like he has for the previous two nights, and he receives no reply, just like he did then. This time, though, he waits a token few seconds before he opens the door anyway and walks in.

It’s something they’ll have to address, if they’re going to do this. Hughie’s propensity to retreat when he’s hurt and Butcher’s inability to reach him are incompatible at best.

Hughie’s laying on his bed, dressed in his standard tee and jeans, facing away from him. He’s awake though, eyes open as he toys with something small and shiny. He doesn’t tell Butcher to go, and although that’s not the same as approving the infringement on his privacy- at least it’s a chance.

Butcher crawls onto the bed, too, settles beside him, curls around the shape of him so that if he were two feet closer, they’d be spooning.

Fuck, he misses the feel of Hughie’s body against his. They fit so well together, jagged edges and all. He reaches out, just close enough to feel the heat of his back warm the tips of his fingers, and he begins trying to get out the words he so carefully rehearsed, all of which have left him completely. When he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.

He sighs, and hates himself, and with his shameful incompetence, makes Hughie speak first, low and sad and a little strangled, like it hurts as much to say the words as it does to hear them.

“It's alright. I get it. I’ve been thinking, and- we can go back. To how we were before. Maybe that's better. It’s not like this is- serious, or anything. ‘Cause- once this quarantine is over, you'll probably wanna go back to- back home.”

Oh. No. Butcher can’t believe how wildly his actions and words have been misinterpreted. That’s not what he meant, at all. He was concerned for Hughie’s sake, worried about saddling him with some old, cynical man who can’t give him the bright, expansive future he deserves.

He hasn’t even thought about going back, lately. Not seriously. With all that’s happening in the world, that seems like such a distant notion to be considering. It would be selfish, and unthinkably risky, to go and get on a flight.

And now, when he does consider it, thinks about leaving Hughie- he just doesn’t want to go. It’s not how he expected to feel, when he started this, but that doesn’t make it any less real. If Hughie doesn’t want him here, that’s a whole other story, but judging by the emotion in his voice, the trembling of his shoulders as he waits, Butcher doesn’t think that’s the case.

Now he just needs to- say that.

He takes a deep breath, and he thinks about how much it will hurt to lose Hughie, to never see that sweet smile again. And he just speaks, without thinking about how it might come out.

"Hughie,” he begins, because it’s a name that’s always slipped right off his tongue, has come so easily to him. There’s never been an endearment that works as well as that name. It reminds him who he’s with, how important it is. “This is serious. I've got a flat back in London, yeah, but- nothing's ever been home like this is. With you. Don't give up on us just because I've been a cunt, Hughie, please. I'll- fuck I'll stop asking if you tell me to, but I think we could have something good, don't you? Give me another chance. What's stopping you?"

Hughie clenches his fist around the item he was toying with, lets it fall to the bed, not quite a punch but close, a physical demonstration of his frustration. “Look around. I'm a twenty-eight year old geek who tells people to turn their fucking computer off and on again all day, who still lives in his dad's apartment, enjoys dressing up and role-playing, and whose life must've been the least affected in all of this ‘cause it’s basically no different to how I lived before.”

Butcher is just realising just where Hughie’s frustration and anger is directed, and how painful it must have been to feel like Butcher was reinforcing, agreeing with his perception of all those perceived inadequacies.

And the final words of Hughie’s response, barely audible, accompanied by the defeated sagging of Hughie’s shoulders and the burying of his face in his pillow, are, “You can do better than me.”

Now, Butcher has a certain amount of patience, and at that point it runs out. Nobody talks about his Hughie that way. “Alright, fuck that. You want to reject me because I’m the world’s most ridiculous cunt, that’s fine. Well, it’s not fine. I’ll accept it. But you are the mad, kind bastard who took me in when I had nowhere to go. You shared your fucking apocalypse stockpile with me. You saved me, Hughie. So you need to escape from real life once in a while, but don’t we all? It’s better than having a fucking drug problem or drinking yourself to death.”

“Yeah, I guess, but-“

“You’re independent, and you’ve got skills that mean you don’t have to work in a fucking terrible office all the time. If it wasn’t intensely creepy and kind of referencing exactly the age difference thing that started this argument, I’d tell you how fucking proud of you I was. You’re incredible, Hughie. I’ll still never regret a second I spend with you. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you but fuck I’m glad I did.”

Oh. Oh, fuck, they haven’t said that yet. He hadn’t even fully realised he was feeling that. He adores Hughie, misses him when he’s not around, admires him and wants to be with him, but-

Love?

He has no idea how the fuck he got here. What made him feel this way. Because- that’s what’s panicking him, more than anything. He does feel that way, he loves Hughie. He just doesn’t understand what part of his brain shut down or was overridden in order for him to actually say it out loud.

He’s still frozen, reeling from the impact of his own words when Hughie finally turns to look at him. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair a mess, his clothes creased. He’s still the most beautiful thing Butcher’s ever seen. "You- really mean that? And you're not just saying it ‘cause I'm kind of your landlord? ‘Cause I'd never kick you out, you know."

“I mean it,” comes out without hesitation, and it’s such a relief to see the tiny, involuntary uptick in Hughie’s lips that it hurts, Butcher’s heart swelling with love and affection. Yeah. He’s okay with this. And they’re okay. He did it. His own smile threatens to overcome him, and he finds himself unable to resist an attempt to shatter the final remnants of tension between them. “Is it a bad time to mention I could come up with some alternative methods of paying the rent?”

Hughie glares, unimpressed with the poorly-timed joke, and Butcher ekes out a final, last-ditch effort before all his nerve leaves him.

“And I'm not always the best guy and this shit never happens to me, but- I'm happy it did. Now- fucks sake, do you forgive me or not because if I talk about my feelings anymore, they'll renounce my British citizenship.”

They’re already there. Hughie’s turning to face him, reaching out to touch him, his skin so soft and warm and real, as he reaches over to thread his fingers through Butcher’s hair. “How can I say no, when my prince puts it so nicely?”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Butcher enthuses, and then as he cradles Hughie’s face and kisses him, breathes him in. “I am the nicest fucking prince you are ever gunna pull, love.”

-

Things go a little more smoothly after that. They both still have their moments, as anyone might, cooped up in such a small space in constant company, but they’re conscious, now, that they need to make the effort to talk, and it’s going well.

They keep the house pretty tidy. There’s not a lot to do except take care of it, and it’s where they spend all their time, with a direct impact on their mental health, so they do their best to look after what they have.

They also spend most of their time in Hughie’s bedroom. It’s bigger, and it’s comfortable, and Hughie has what could loosely be referred to as supplies.

He’s just making the most of some of them, looping silk rope around Butcher’s wrists so they can play at rescuing the poor hostage, who’s ever so grateful-

When there’s a knock at the door.

Not the front door. Not the buzzer to let someone into the building. Hughie’s bedroom door.

Butcher’s first guilty instinct is to stash the rope, throw it under Hughie’s bed, so whoever has made it past their locked front door but then been overcome by politeness won’t get that insight into their sexual habits.

Then Hughie answers the door.

Butcher gets the slightest glimpse of an unassuming, middle-aged man before Hughie stands easily between them, slips out the door and shuts it behind him. “Oh, hi dad, welcome back,” he says, entirely too loudly, and Butcher lunges to find a shirt and make himself presentable. First impressions are everything; this is important, and also very likely to go wrong. He hasn’t forgotten their first fight, or what triggered it.

He takes a few deep breaths, listens to the conversation that’s happening outside the door, Hughie’s dad asking all the standard questions about how Hughie is, whether he’s been taking care of himself- and whose jacket that is, on the hook in the hall.

That’s Butcher’s jacket. Fuck. Well, better face the music.

Cautiously, he leaves the room, to ease himself into the conversation. He’s eyed with alarm, then surprise, as he extends a hand and tries his best to smooth out his accent. “William Butcher, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”

Hughie’s dad -Hugh, Butcher recalls- seems unconvinced, but he shakes his hand with a stiff attempt at a smile, before looking to his son. “Hughie?”

“Uhh, yeah. Dad, this is Butcher. He’s- uhh.” Hughie hesitates only long enough to case a brief glance at Butcher, within whom he finds the confidence he needs. He even leans in to snake an arm around Butcher’s waist and regard him proudly when he confirms, “My boyfriend.”

“Your- Hughie.” Hugh’s visible alarm is back, and he stage-whispers to Hughie, “Is that safe? With the- quarantine?”

“It’s fine dad, he lives here.”

“Hughie! I was gone for a few months and you- this isn’t one of your- internet things, is it?”

“No, dad.” Hughie’s torn between laughter and frustration. Butcher recognises the combination, wisely keeps his mouth shut. “It’s not- an internet thing. He applied for the spare room, and I checked all his paperwork, and took a security deposit. We just hit it off, and- I wouldn’t change a thing.” He’s pulled Butcher closer, but at this point he glances up into his eyes, ducks his head like he can’t quite bring himself to look at either of them until after he confesses, “I love him.”

Butcher has no fucking clue what Hugh’s reaction is to that. He only has one thing on his mind, can barely keep his knees from giving way with the depth of the emotions that threaten to swamp him upon hearing those words, not quite to him, but certainly about him, no less meaningful for it.

He settles, begrudgingly, still somehow aware and considerate of their company, for leaning in to nose at Hughie’s hairline, to kiss his cheek, to murmur that he loves him too, those words somehow so much less difficult to find than he had thought, in the moment, even though he’s spoken them before.

“You’re the best thing to come out of this stupid fucking lockdown.” Hughie smiles at him too, and it’s like nothing exists except for them. He goes, easily, when Butcher eases him into a kiss with a hand cradling his face, soft and chaste and suitable for an audience, if sickeningly sweet. He can feel the smile, allows it to warm his heart and hear the promises it makes for their future together.

At some point, Hugh throws his hands up and walks away.

He’s probably tired from his long journey. Butcher will introduce himself properly later.


End file.
